Something Extra
by CSIGurlie07
Summary: Sister to "Something More". Same premise, but with some of the episodes I missed the first time around. Established Zibbs, of course. Starts with Cloak, but follows no particular order. Rated T though that may change on a chap by chap basis.
1. Cloak

The basement door slammed open as Gibbs stormed through it, pounding down the wooden stairs to confront the slender woman who was already waiting for him. Her own stance was tense, ready for the confrontation she had been expecting for the past twelve hours.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Gibbs growled, stepping dangerously within Ziva's reach. "I told you to not resist. I told you to stand down!"

"You also told us that they would be using live rounds!" Ziva fired back, unfazed by his explosion. "You told us they did not know we were coming! You told us that we were infiltrating a secure military facility!"

"And for all intents and purposes, they were, they didn't, and you were!" Blue eyes flashed dangerously. "You disobeyed a direct order, David."

"I acted on instinct, Gibbs! I was protecting my partner! I saw loaded weapons being pointed in our direction and I acted accordingly!"

"And if they _had_ been using live rounds, both of you would have been shot!"

"And the entire situation would have been avoided had you simply been honest with us!" Even in the shadows of the basement, Gibbs could see the flash of hurt and betrayal in her eyes.

"I did what I had to."

"And again you lie to me." Ziva's expression hardened. "I thought you did not like Vance. I thought it was _he_ you did not trust."

"I don't—"

"And yet is he who you conspire with, leaving the rest of your team in the dark," she accused angrily. "You have been distrustful of him since he took over as Director, because you are afraid he will abuse his position as Jenny did. You hated what she did to the team by making Tony her key to La Grenouille."

"Jenny had nothing to do—"

"She has everything to do with this! She turned Tony into her puppet, and nearly broke him in the process!"

"Ziva—"

"No, Gibbs! You were not the one who had to pick up the pieces after that woman left him!" Ziva paused, daring him to contradict her. When he didn't, she continued. "Now, tell me, Gibbs: your doubts about Vance in those first few months, your suspicions of him using his position as Director to cloak some hidden agenda… How is any of that different from what you did? From how you lied to us for no reason?"

"You accusing me of something, David?" Gibbs' voice was dangerously low, but Ziva was unfazed.

"Yes, I am! I am accusing you of withholding vital information during a sensitive case. You claim that it was to keep Lee out of the loop, but to be perfectly frank I find it insulting that you think that we would accept that as an excuse for your behavior!" Gibbs' hackles rose angrily, but Ziva didn't give him a chance to speak. "Because if that were the case, then it means you doubted our loyalty! That we would tip off Michelle, and allow Domino to slip into the wrong hands. That we would risk the safety of both your country and mine simply because we had spent a few short months with her on the team while you went off to play house with Mike Franks!"

"Watch yourself, David—"

"No, Gibbs, you are the one who needs to watch yourself. You are the one who lied to us, and risked our lives. You lied to Ducky, you lied to Tony, to McGee. You lied to _me, _Gibbs." Her voice was suddenly hurt, the anger draining from her posture. "Did you really think I could not handle the truth? If I had known that they were not using live fire, I would have responded differently." She paused. "Maybe. I will not deny that my actions were mostly an instinctual reflex."

"Ziva…" Gibbs also felt the fight drain out of him. The burning rage that had been roiling in his gut ever since he heard her fighting the Marines over the audio feed melted away, and he felt the vestiges of guilt creeping up on him.

"I have more than enough experience to justify being briefed in. And even though Tony crossed a line with Jeanne Benoit, it does not negate the fact that he did get to La Granouille in the end. Even McGee would have been able to handle the truth. There is no explanation you could give that could make your decision the right one."

"Zi—"

"And _then_ you order me to meet you down here, only to berate me for fighting to defend myself and my partner." The anger returned to her glare. "Well, guess what, Gibbs? I do not care what your damn orders were. I would do the exact same thing if I had the chance to do it again."

Gibbs' jaw tightened at her blatant insubordination. His pride wouldn't let him simply let it go, even though he knew that her words rang true. His decision, as unpopular as it was, had gotten the job done. Michelle Lee was unveiled as the mole who had been leaking government secrets to the highest bidder. As Brent Langer's murderer.

He understood her frustration; he had felt the same bitterness when he had discovered Jenny's machinations in regards to The Frog. It was this understanding that forced him to tamp his anger down, to return to the reason he had been pissed in the first place. The dim light of the basement was enough for him to see the angry swelling of her upper lip. His mind flashed back to facility, seeing her approach with Tony, a smear of blood trailing from her nose. A brief scan at the time had revealed scuffed knuckles as well, betraying her skill in hand-to-hand combat, but now it was the clotted tear marring her delicate skin that captured his attention.

He reached out to gently caress her bruised cheek, but never got that far. His wrist was caught in a vice-like grip, the motion of his arm halted by slender bruising fingers. The aggression surprised him, as did the fierce distrust he saw in her gaze when he looked into her eyes.

"It is a two-way street, Gibbs," she bit out coldly. She pushed his hand forcefully into his chest, shoving past him to move towards the stairs. Her steps were barely audible on the creaky wooden stairs, as if a silent testament to the training she boasted of mere moments ago—the training he had disregarded in favor of careful secrecy. "I will see you at work."

And then she was gone, leaving Gibbs standing alone with his boat in the middle of a dark basement.


	2. Dagger

The silent basement was shrouded in growing shadows, the warm glow of the setting sun just peeking through the clouded windows as Gibbs sat on the edge of a vacant sawhorse. A mug of bourbon resided in his left hand, his right being wrapped in pressure bandages to support his broken finger. In his mind he saw the glimpse of bone poking through the skin as he had wondered why his trigger finger wasn't responding properly. But then he blinked and he saw Lee's face, seeing her knowing gaze and her lips prompting him to end her life. He saw the face of a little girl as he told her that she would never see her sister again.

Gibbs was just taking a sip from his mug when he heard the familiar squeak of the basement door opening, alerting him to the presence of another individual in his home. The lack of subsequent footsteps on the stairs told him exactly who it was who would brave risking his foul mood by encroaching on his haven.

"Congratulations," Ziva said, her lilting voice dull. "You have played Director Vance." He didn't respond. "I hear he almost had an aneurysm when he found out you had made an illegal copy of Domino." She came to a stop in front of him, leaning stiffly against the boat. "You must be very proud that you finally managed to get one over on him."

"I don't need to hear this right now, David," Gibbs finally replied, standing and turning to start fiddling with the tools scattered on the workbench behind him.

"Too bad," she shot back, her voice short. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You have already gotten what you wanted out of this situation—now it is my turn." Gibbs didn't respond to that, instead focusing on the cluttered space of the countertop. She sighed. "I did not come here to beat a dead horse, Gibbs." At this, his hands stilled, letting her know she had his attention. "I came here to tell you that I understand what you did. And why you did it."

"Oh really," Gibbs snarked, turning around to face her at last. "Well, now that I have your blessing…"

"I said nothing about my blessing," Ziva corrected, ignoring his sarcasm. "I told you I understood. I still think you were wrong to do it, and I am still angry you did it."

"Then why the hell are you here?"

"Because now you are hurting too."

The stark honesty of her words left Gibbs without a response. He shifted wordlessly, tucking his uninjured hand into the pocket of his slacks. Ziva seemed to pick up on his discomfort, as she too fidgeted in her place. She glanced down at the tops of her boots as her fingers tapped against her arms in agitation. Finally, they stilled, and she met his gaze, her eyes serious.

"I am no stranger to being used, Gibbs." Her lips pressed into a tense line for a moment before she continued. "It was all I knew, for a very long time. No one I ever came into contact with were as they first appeared. They always had a hidden agenda, some ulterior motive regarding what they thought they could obtain from me." Her eyes rose to meet his again. They were dark and piercing, even in the fading light.

"You believed what Ari said about my father, even though the only thing you knew about my brother was that he was a lying murderer." She licked her lips nervously, glancing around the room, as if worried someone might overhear her words. "And recently, I have allowed myself to acknowledge that my brother was right, about everything that he said that night. My father uses whomever he likes however he likes, no matter if his motives are personal or not."

"Ziva—" A raised hand cut off Gibbs' words. He fell silent, allowing her to continue.

"And this past week… it was the first time I have seen you come so dangerously close to being exactly like him."

Gibbs froze as her words struck home. He opened his mouth to protest—and found he couldn't. She was right, brutally so. It hurt to admit, but he couldn't deny that he hadn't used his team like so many pawns, using them to play out his perfectly orchestrated plan.

"I had come to recognize NCIS as a place I would not have to be the sharp end of the spear, the weapon who simply follows instructions and remains unaware of the larger picture." Ziva paused once more, her expression one of knowing she had misspoken. "No," she corrected. "Not NCIS. I knew Director Shepard was a skilled puppet master when she needed to be, and I learned through Tony's mission that she had no qualms about using her own people." She sighed, slumping slightly against the boat.

"It was the team was what had surprised me; everything was exactly how it appeared to be. Yes, McGee hid the fact that he had written a novel about us, and yes, Tony lied to protect Jenny's orders. But everyone was exactly who they said they were. Everyone has a role to play, and everyone knows exactly what that role is and how that role will be used to help solve a case. There was never any confusion or deception between us. And your obvious and well-known distaste for underhanded dealings on the behalf of your superiors was a startling, though welcome, relief. Not only that, you were so fiercely protective of your team; your concern for their welfare was much greater than any I had ever before seen in a unit leader."

Gibbs saw where she was going with this as clearly as if he were watching a freight train barreling down the tracks towards him. But he couldn't interrupt he; he couldn't cut through the growing emotion that was creeping into her voice. So he stood there dumbly, letting her continue her emotional and uncharacteristic outpouring.

"I guess I was not prepared to discover that you were not as different as I thought you were." She shifted her position, straightening slightly. "But I understand you did what you thought you had to do. And I do not deny that it was effective. You caught Lee, discovered the man who was blackmailing her, and protected Domino. It was nearly flawless. But your carefully laid plans, as intricate as they were, ended the same way all as the others did."

Gibbs looked at her, an eyebrow slightly arched. Surely she wasn't going to equate his success in protecting Domino and national security to Jenny's personal vengeance and whatever Director David gained from Ari being revealed as the mole he was.

"The death of La Grenouille left behind an angry, bitter, and confused daughter who later sought vengeance against Tony, trying to frame him for her father's murder."

"I remember." His voice was low, gravelly, but Ziva heard it anyway.

"Then I am sure you recognized the scene this afternoon." Ziva met his gaze and held it, her eyes hard. "When you told a girl that the woman she idolized and loved more than anything in the world was dead. That her sister was a traitor to her country and a murderer, and had been killed as a result." Ziva paused. "Though I suppose in Agent Lee's case, you might have said she had made the ultimate sacrifice, rather than that she had simply paid the price. After all, she killed those two men to protect someone, rather than out of vengeance, like Ari did."

Gibbs closed his eyes as he sat back down on the sawhorse, fighting the roiling turmoil inside of him. He wondered how he hadn't seen it before. He had thought he had seen a tear roll down her cheek in the squad bay, but had disregarded it as a trick of the light. But now, hearing it from her own lips, everything was so clear. Her strings had been pulled expertly, but this time, she hadn't realized it until it was too late. And she hadn't realized it because she hadn't expected something so underhanded from him.

And the sheer awareness of it hit him like a ton of bricks. His plan had been brilliant, it was true. It had gotten the job done. But how many people had been hurt in the process? Tony and Ziva, even McGee, though the younger agent was much less vocal about it… perhaps because he had not been the ones caught inside the false installation. Ducky had only been slightly more understanding than his agents; the Scotsman's demeanor towards Gibbs was still frosty, if not openly hostile. Only Abby was not hurt by his plan—and that was because she had been in on the whole thing. She had known from the very start how everything was going to play out, as he had needed her help to pull it off.

"But for all of that, Jethro," Ziva continued, "you are still not like them. You are not Jenny, and you are definitely not my father." The unexpected tenderness in her voice cut through the growing fog of self-doubt swirling through his mind. He looked up at her, and couldn't keep his fatigue and emotion from spilling over, becoming tangible in the form of an exhausted tear creeping out of the corner of his eye.

"And do you know how I know that?" she continued. She straightened and stepped forward, coming closer to him than she had in days. She positioned herself between his bent knees, her face inches from his. Her dark eyes were compelling, and he could not look away as her hand came up to caress his cheek.

"I know this because it bothers you." For the first time in what seemed like days, she smiled. It was sad smile, small and tentative, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Jenny felt no remorse for her actions, and we both know my father never did. But you are. Right now, it is tearing you to pieces inside. You are still in touch with your humanity." Her thumb brushed across his cheek, wiping away the moisture it found there. "And I hope you never let go of that."

At that, the rest of Gibbs' resolve crumbled, and he reached out to wrap his arms around Ziva's waist. He pulled her closer to him, and she didn't resist, stepping closer to enfold his upper shoulders in a comforting embrace. He rested his head on her shoulder as her hand came up to rest at the base of his skull. The warm contact between them seemed to drain what little remained of his energy, and the exhaustion and stress of the past week finally caught up to him.

"I am sorry I was not there last night," she whispered. "I am sorry I was not there to have your back."

"Apologies—"

"—are a sign of weakness," she finished, her voice finding strength. She pulled away to look at him, and though he did not relinquish his hold on her, Gibbs lifted his head to meet her gaze. "Not now," she declared with a shake of her head. "Not between us." She held his gaze moment more, as if to solidify her claim.

Then she was pulling him closer again, and he melted into her touch. A part of him realized that it was more than he deserved; she had called him out on a mistake that could have caused irreparable damage to what they had… it nearly did ruin them. At least, that was what it had felt like. He had stooped to level they had both thought he would never condone, and still she accepted him, both as a leader and a lover.

"I'm sorry," he whispered back, the honesty burning his throat as he voiced his turbulent emotions. "I'm sorry." She gave a small sigh, and under his arms he felt the last of the tension leave her body.

"I know," she returned softly. "I know."


	3. Hiatus

_"I'm not implying you don't care…"_

_"What if those were Gibbs' guts smooshed all over that room?"_

_"You didn't __ask?"_

Ziva left the restroom faucet on, as if the sound of running water would help to drown out the echoes of the sharp words reverberating through her skull. Ducky's voice: sharp, then condescending as he presumed to know her mind. Then Abby's worried and fearful tone that quickly shifted to anger. Did they not see? Could they not see how hard she was working to maintain her composure?

Seeing the explosion from her position in the Charger has shocked her, but her mind had first jumped to the realization that their operation had just become infinitely more complex, if not rendered completely useless. She had not even considered the possibility that Gibbs had been caught in the explosion. He was supposed to be in the galley, close to the aft access ramp, as he checked the crew's passports.

She and Tony had moved quickly, leaving McGee to make the necessary phone calls and to safeguard the vehicle. They had boarded the freighter to find the customs agents attempting to restore order to the panicking crew and absolutely no sign of Gibbs. Tony had been the one to ask where Gibbs was. A distracted wave in the direction of the blast had caused Tony to pause as his mind did not immediately make the connection.

But Ziva had.

She could still feel the sensation of her stomach falling out from under her as she sprinted towards the bow of the ship, the stench of smoke and burning flesh assaulting her senses as she raced closer. The jolt of her heart skipping a beat as she found the site of the bomb, only to find the familiar sight of mangled bits of bone and tissue spattered on the bulkheads—and no Gibbs in sight.

She had frozen then, for the briefest of moments, dumbstruck before she could even consciously acknowledge what she thought she was seeing. But then a low moan had cut through the shock that had shrouded her. Instantly regaining her bearing, she had sprung into action, dashing into the cabin with no consideration for the still-burning debris dotting the deck or the possibility of a secondary device. She had moved directly to the only corner of the cabin that could not be seen from the hatch—behind what appeared to be a battered washing machine.

She remembered seeing the smudged white letters on the back of the crumpled form's jacket, recognizing the shock of silver hair beneath the familiar ball cap. She had pressed two fingers to Gibbs' neck as her other hand lingered beneath his nose in hopes of detecting signs of life. She remembered realizing that her chest had indeed not been caught in a vice, as it had felt, and was again able to breathe as she could feel his pulse and faint breathing beneath her fingers. The growing heat within the cabin spurred her into action, and she quickly began to pull him from the cabin. As soon as she had succeeded in dragging him some six feet from the hatch she laid him down on the deck, again checking his vitals. To her relief, his pulse was still strong, but he had yet to regain consciousness.

She had removed his hat then, carefully running her fingers along his cranium, searching for bumps or lacerations. Even though she found no sign of immediate injury, her concern did not dissipate. Had he been that close to a bomb in the open air of the street, the lack of bleeding and bumps would have been enough to convince her, but in the close confines of the cabin and the unforgiving metal surfaces of the bulkheads, the pressure of the explosion had been amplified. It was entirely possible that his brain had been damaged without leaving any outward indication. And the blood beginning to leak from the corners of his eyes had done nothing to assuage her fears. She had just been pulling out her knife to cut away his jacket when Tony finally skidded to a stop in front of them.

"Boss…" Ziva could hear the shock and disbelief in his voice. She felt his wide eyes follow her hands as they worked, and when he failed to say anything else, or make any movement to help, she had known that he was close to breaking down.

"He is alive," she had told him bluntly. She had fallen back on her training. There had been no use and no time for emotion. "Go wait for the paramedics, and send them down here when they arrive." She did not look up from her task of searching for deep lacerations, her movements practiced and efficient. Tony had not moved. "GO!"

Her shout had gotten through to him, and he turned to do as she ordered. She listened to his running steps fading away as her eyes remained focused on Gibbs' limp form. He had not stirred under her ministrations, even as she gently prodded for broken ribs. As she lightly ran her fingers along his sides, she had felt the rise and fall of his chest slow, then cease altogether. Fighting the growing chaos of panic creeping closer, her fingers flew to his neck only to find his pulse jumping erratically under her touch.

Without a second thought she tilted his head back expertly clearing his airway before placing her mouth over his. She had pinched his nose shut as she delivered the first life-saving breath. She then counted slowly, then turned her head to see his chest rising. She repeated the process, then again checked his pulse. She did it over and over, continually checking to see if she needed to begin administering chest compressions. But his pulse had remained tangible until the paramedics arrived, a stretcher in tow. She moved back, allowing them to swoop in and quickly intubate him.

"I have been breathing for him for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds," she had told them. "His pulse has been jumpy for about as long." One of the paramedics had nodded in acknowledgement. They loaded him onto the gurney, but when they moved towards the bow access ramp, she had ensnared the closest EMT with a lightning quick hand. "Go back the way you came," she ordered.

"Going back that way will take twice as long than if we take the bow exit," a nameless EMT argued.

"We do not know if there are any more bombs onboard," Ziva said, her voice as unyielding as her grip on the material of his uniform. "The way you came is the most secure route to take." When the paramedic opened his mouth to argue once more, Ziva quickly cut him off. "You do not have time to argue, just do it!"

The man had finally obeyed with a nod, helping his comrades to push the gurney back in the direction it had come. Ziva had briefly registered that Tony remained glued to the EMTs, following them as they transported Gibbs to the awaiting ambulance. She had shoved the images of Gibbs crying tears of blood as he lay still and pale from her mind, instead focusing on the immediate danger.

Local LEOs were beginning to flood the area, and Ziva had quickly begun to organize them. She instructed the customs agents to isolate and monitor the crew on the docks as the bomb squad immediately began to sweep the ship for more devices. She had ordered the LEOs to establish a perimeter around the surrounding docks, as the Coast Guard began to patrol the harbor. She did not see the ambulance depart for the hospital, but when Tony had appeared and resumed control of the situation, she had figured that they had not had any trouble.

It was about that point that Ducky had arrived, but her relief at seeing the elder gentleman had been short-lived as she realized he too was more concerned about Gibbs' condition than with the chaotic scene in front of him. It was then that she had lost her patience, her tone becoming curt as she fought to maintain what little control she had over the situation. The medical examiner's attempt to backtrack had only made things worse, reminding her that she was not like the others.

But it had not been until she had witnessed the director's obvious concern for Gibbs that she had realized that her own demeanor was not normal. She understood why she was different from the rest of the team—they were more fiercely devoted to Gibbs than Ziva had ever seen, and they had had no need to learn how to effectively compartmentalize. But Jenny, she was like Ziva, or at least, she could be when necessary. But she had chosen to be like the others—placing Gibbs' welfare above all else. Ziva understood their concern, because yes, she was worried too, but she had done all that she could for him; simply standing around in a hospital would neither help Gibbs nor the investigation.

That was why she had volunteered to escort the _capitan_ back to NCIS. She spoke Turkish, and Tony was obviously anxious to visit Gibbs. But if Ziva were honest with herself, she knew that those were not the true reasons for her avoiding the hospital. The stark truth of the matter was that she had had her fill of seeing Gibbs limp and unresponsive—broken.

So she had tried to distance herself from the others; each time she came into contact with their tempestuous whirlwind of worry and fear she had to work twice as hard to stay out of reach of her own doubts. She had hoped that they would recognize her insensitivity and leave her alone, but instead they had called her out on it, their words angry and accusatory. Instead of being careful she was insensitive, heartless rather than efficient.

In retrospect, her confrontation with Abby had been somewhat her fault.

"_What if those were Gibbs' guts smooshed all over that room?"_

"_They would be more coffee brown than red."_

The words echoed in Ziva's head, followed by the phantom sting of Abby's slap. She had been foolish to give such a response. Yes, the Goth's question had been ridiculous, falling into the realm of what-ifs that Ziva had never dared venture into. What is, is—what is not, should not be dwelled upon. And though Gibbs himself would most likely have smiled in approval of her astute acknowledgment of his coffee habit, she should have known Abby was far too vulnerable to appreciate it.

But here, alone in the silent restroom, she had nothing to hide behind. The shock of finding Gibbs, seeing him so vulnerable and so close to death finally broke through the last of her defenses. She did not know when, or how, but somewhere over the course of the past year she had come to think of her boss as indestructible. It was foolish of her—she knew better than anyone that no one is invulnerable. Everyone bleeds, everyone breaks. But seeing him like that… it had shattered some illusion he had instilled in her.

He had squared off against her brother not once, not twice, but three times, and had lived to tell about it. He had been a Marine, a scout sniper, in two wars. He had gone head to head with criminals and murderers, always coming out on top.

But now she was faced with the harsh reality. The "fearless leader" she had come to trust, to emulate, was mere flesh and blood. And now there was the very real possibility that he may never wake up. He could remain comatose until he breathed his last breath, whether that last be tomorrow or ten years from now. And that possibility left Ziva feeling bare and exposed.

From the moment she had discovered that he had lied to protect her from her father, Ziva had felt… protected. It had been a foreign sensation, alien. But in a rare moment of weakness, she had clung to it. She had requested to be attached to Gibbs' team, and though his initial brush-off had terrified her momentarily—had she been wrong?—his trust and acceptance had returned. He had been strict with her, pushing her to learn and observe, but with none of the cruelty she was accustomed to.

And now that blanket of protection had been ripped away once again. With Gibbs out of commission, how long would it be before her father recalled her to Israel? He had been reluctant to assign her to NCIS in the first place, and would undoubtedly be ready to pull her back at a moment's notice. Her apprehension surprised her—she had come to America in the hopes that she could distance herself from that life, and it appeared that she had succeeded, despite Ducky and Abby's accusations.

She had changed, if the tears running down her cheeks were any indication, and she owed it all to Gibbs. It had been his faith in her that had convinced her she could be more than the sum of her training. And now she could not return the favor; she could do nothing to help the man who had saved her life. The realization churned painfully in her gut, threatening to make her sick. She had experienced the sensation only once before, in a moment that doubled as the moment her entire world had changed, when Tali had died in her arms.

For the second time in her life, Ziva David was powerless to save the person she loved.


	4. Once a Hero

This chapter was a request from CMC3. I don't often take requests, but this one I did. Dunno why. Took me forever and a half to write, sorry. But hey, an update is an update, no? It's not one of my best, but once you read I think you'll realize why.

This chapter is special because it is a Pre-Zibbs setting. Haven't tried that in a while. Or actually, EVER. And let me tell you, it's a pain in the $$. Just goes to show that they're meant to be together, at least in my stories.

Enjoy! And happy 2010!

* * *

Gibbs watched Congressman Getz leave his aide, carefully keeping the churning of his gut disguised as cold professionalism. While he wanted nothing more than to slug the sleazy politician for his offhand assumptions, he had a case to think about, and it was possible they would need the Congressman's assistance before the case was wrapped up.

"The Congressman thinks our Marine was crazy." He regarded her with a cool stare. "And jumped."

He saw realization dawn in her eyes. "Ah. And you do not."

"I'm not ruling out anything. Yet." He saw the tiniest of grins creep over her features as he turned and began to head back into the building. She kept pace with him, her movements graceful despite her heeled pumps.

"I do not think he jumped either," she observed. Though her tone was conversational, Gibbs could not deny the shock he felt. In the past, Ziva was often the first to jump to conclusions, especially when they seemed as obvious as a questionable Marine jumping off a balcony.

"You don't, huh?" he drawled, his tone wry.

"No." She followed him through the tinted doors and into the air-conditioned interior of the conference building. "The only thing we know about him is that he is a Marine."

"Marines commit suicide too, David," he informed her. Involuntarily, his mind jumped back to the evening he had come so very close to doing the same thing. The coma had left the painful images fresh in his mind, and he had to work to keep them tucked away.

"Yes," she agreed, apparently not noticing the tightness of his voice, "but jumping into the midst of a conference filled with the leaders of multiple government agencies? A Marine would not do that. Marines are much more visceral. They would die the way they lived—guns, knives, reckless driving…" He grinned involuntarily at that one. "Even if they did jump, a Marine would use a cliff, yes? Not a small indoor six story drop with so many occupants on the floor. There would be too big a chance someone else would be harmed. And there is the obvious."

"Which is?"

"Marines have too much pride. Suicide is a coward's way out. It would be the final act of weakness. A Marine would not make such an act so public. He would try to either disguise it or hide it. An audience would be right out, no?"

Gibbs slowed, allowing Ziva to draw even with him. He regarded her with a sidelong glance. She glanced at him as well, a smug expression clearly discernable on her exotic features. Disjointedly, Gibbs wondered how she had been so easily able to put words to the churning sensation of his gut, the sensation that told him that something about the immediate scene did not sit well with him. And _he _was the Marine, after all; he should have been able to pinpoint _all_ of those reasons right off the bat.

Not saying a word, Gibbs gave a terse nod, and was rewarded with a full smile from his Mossad Liaison Officer. And again he was reminded of how glad he was that he had managed to help clear her name those few months ago. He suspected that if she _had_ been forced to return to Israel, he himself would not have rejoined the team at all.

But before he had a chance to wonder at the unusual bond he and the Israeli shared, another member of his team caught his attention.

"Dinozzo, stop eating the evidence!"

* * *

"We were right."

Gibbs looked up from the papers on his desk to find Ziva leaning over the partition off to the side of the plasma, looking at him with tired but satisfied eyes. There was something else in her gaze, he noticed, but he was at a loss to identify it. There were hints of worry, and more than a little concern. But both were well-hidden, and even Gibbs would not have seen it had he not already been so familiar with her guardedness.

"About what?" he asked, leaving her emotions alone for the time being.

"Wright did not jump." Gibbs smirked in wry acknowledgement.

"No, he didn't."

"He died like a Marine is supposed to. He was doing the right thing. Even after everything he had suffered through, even after being forced to live off the generosity of one of his comrades and being reduced to eating leftover room service, he still answered the call of duty. He tried to save that girl. He is a hero, and he died as one."

"Heroes shouldn't die," Gibbs remarked. He surprised himself with the observation. He didn't often indulge in rhetorical, wistful statements like that. But to his relief, Ziva only smiled.

"All heroes die," she returned softly. "It is part of what makes them heroes. After all, heroism is a measure of how well people remember you when you are gone, yes? If you are still alive, it is only courage, and bravery. It is only heroism if you are dead."

There were flaws in her logic, but Gibbs did not point them out, for her words rang true nonetheless. In any case, he suspected that in Israel, when death is always so close, her argument would be indisputable. But here, in America, in the Corps, there were everyday heroes too. There were people who performed heroic acts and then proceeded to live out their long remaining years in contentment and pride.

Chesty Puller lived to be 71, after earning five Navy Crosses. Dan Daly lived to be 63 after earning two Medals of Honor. Smedley Butler also earned two Medals of Honor, but died at the ripe old age of 58.

All three Marines were heroes long before their deaths. None of them died on the field of battle, though they might have preferred it to the slow pains of old age. But they were heroes, to Marines and civilians alike, before and after they retired from the Corps. He sighed. But Ziva wouldn't have heard of them.

"Ziva," he said finally, changing the subject, "what are you doing here?"

"Talking to you."

"The others went home an hour ago," he pointed out. "Even Abby went home to get some sleep."

"You are here," she observed with a shrug. But something in her gaze shifted.

"What's wrong?" She glanced at him in surprise, as if it shocked her that he had noticed something off about her. She apparently did not realize that her mask of indifference had long since been rendered ineffective in his presence—after what had happened between them in the hospital, he had come to find that he was much more easily able to discern the depths of her gazes. She pulled back defensively, allowing the partition between them to act as a barrier, and not a support for her arm.

"It is nothing," she said dismissively. "You would call it paranoid, yes?"

"Ziva…" His tone was inviting, and after a tentative glance, she finally relented.

"It is Tony." She paused, as if waiting for him to roll his eyes with annoyance or dismiss her fears with a wave of his hand. Instead, he waited patiently. He was unsurprised by her admission, and though he had disregarded her worries in the past, he recognized that it was still bothering her a great deal.

"He tells me that he is not sick, and most days, I believe him, but then he comes into the office with dark circles, obviously exhausted. He has two cellphones, claiming one is on the fritz, but if it is, why would he not simply replace it? When he answers his second phone he never uses his last name. And you know how it is with Tony, it is always 'The Great Dinozzo' this and 'The Amazing Dinozzo' that. Something is not right, Gibbs, and do not say it is a woman. If it is, he would have told us. He would have told _everyone_. But he has not. And even if it is a woman, even if he has not told us because he is finally serious about someone, something still does not smell right. Two phones, no last name… Something is wrong, Gibbs. And I am not trying to be nosy. He is my partner, and if he is involved with something, it involves me too. He does not even answer his work cell anymore, if he sees it is me calling."

Her words flooded together in one long ramble, and when it was done, she sighed as if drained from finally voicing all of her concerns aloud. It was then that Gibbs was able to discern that unknown element in her earlier gaze. It was hurt. She was hurt by the fact that Tony did not trust her well enough to give her the full story.

Her report had been disjointed, nearly incoherent, and Gibbs realized it was because she did not have the full story. Without the whole picture, she was at a loss to interpret the little nuances she had noticed over the past few months, but she knew in her gut that something was wrong.

And _that_ was something he understood above anything else. The little things she noticed, they more than a partner should notice, and she cared more than a simple partner should, but if her gut told her something was off, Gibbs believed it. The situation bothered him too, but it was not yet to the point where he felt he needed to step in. He had already guessed Jen had something to do with Tony's behavior, given all of their recent private conversations in her office. But even so, Ziva brought up another valid point.

If Dinozzo didn't answer her calls, and if he didn't focus on the case properly, it put Ziva in danger. With the work they did, being distracted could be deadly. And though Ziva was more than capable of taking care of herself, what happened the one time she needs Tony's help, and he doesn't answer? The possibility made Gibbs unexpectedly uneasy.

When he failed to respond, Ziva sighed, her shoulders slumped.

"It is nothing, yes? I should not have bothered you."

She swiftly crossed the bullpen and began to gather her things, finally ready to leave for the night. Her eyes were dark, but whether it was from frustration or humiliation, Gibbs could not be certain. She was about to move to the elevator when Gibbs finally came to a decision.

"Ziva." His voice made her pause, and she turned to look at him with wary eyes. He could tell she was bracing herself for a sharp rebuke or a headslap, despite the guardedness of her gaze. "You ever need anything, you call me. Not Dinozzo." Tiny wrinkles appeared in the flesh of her brow as consternation clouded her features. He had taken her by surprise, that much was certain; hell, even he was surprised at his sudden order. But he kept up his usual gruff persona. "Got it?"

After a long moment, she nodded tersely. With a muttered good night, she left the squad room, and opted for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. As soon as she was out of sight, Gibbs sank back into his chair.

Why had he told her to call him? Though it was unlikely she would ever take advantage of it, but he had opened a door he could not close. And yet, he wasn't at all daunted or regretful of that. In a way, the offer had always been there. She was always welcome to talk to him, and she had on several occasions. But this was different, more, somehow. He was giving himself priority over her partner, and slating himself to give her more consideration than he afforded Dinozzo and McGee. But he didn't feel burdened by the development like he had expected.

Instead he felt… he wasn't sure. It wasn't happiness, per se. Nor was it excitement. She had once hinted to him that she was no longer on a speaking basis with her father, which meant that she was on her own in America. Unless she was to check in the embassy and the Mossad detail stationed there, she had no one to report to but him. And it was obvious after what happened with the Georgetown bombing that the embassy could not help her beyond deportation back to Israel. He liked being able to help her, for some inexplicable reason. She needed to have someone in her corner, and he felt honored that she trusted him to be that person for her, especially when the other person she was supposed to be able to trust had recently begun to flake on her.

With a grin, Gibbs stood and gathered his own things, ready to go home and spend the rest of the night working on his boat. She might not ever take advantage of his offer, he acknowledged silently, but that didn't mean he had to let her continue on alone. Maybe, just maybe, it would make all the difference if he asked her about her personal life more often. Inquiring as to how your colleagues were doing was an acceptable form of workplace etiquette, even if he had never followed it in the past. But for Ziva, he'd be willing to break pattern. Maybe just once or twice.

And maybe while he spent the twilight hours sanding away at his boat, he would try to figure why exactly it was that his gut clenched every time he noticed just how much attention Ziva was giving Dinozzo anyway.


	5. Silent Night

Disclaimer: Here we go. My first disclaimer. I usually avoid these, because it is obvious that fanfiction owners do not claim to own the characters or anything, and we do not use them for profit (or at least I don't, and I hope no one else does). But this particular chapter is very heavy, and runs the risk of offending some people.

I want to take this opportunity to let everyone know that despite whatever historical inaccuracies or cultural assumptions I make about the Jews and their history, I have tried to be as respectful and accurate as possible. Judaism, as both a religion and a culture, has suffered greatly throughout history, and their tragedies are not to be taken lightly.

I have included some background information at the bottom of this chapter for those who are interested or think I have taken liberties. Some of my reasoning is also explained.

Enjoy.

* * *

Gibbs shivered in the crisp December air. He was well insulated from the cold in his efficient parka, but the biting wind refused to ease. He couldn't feel his nose anymore, and he was fairly certain it was just as red as Ziva's was. She was walking along beside him on the graveled pathway, her small hands jammed deep in her coat pockets. She was hunkered down with her shoulders scrunched up instinctually to protect her against the unforgiving cold, but her eyes remained alert, and took in their surroundings with a practiced eye. Even as she did so, she was not distracted from their conversation.

"You know, Gibbs… you could always give your father a call. I am almost certain that he would enjoy hearing from you, especially this time of year. You Americans like to advertise the months of November and December as time for family, yes?"

"Yeah, most Americans," Gibbs said, watching a few of the people in question scurry past them. "But I never said we were like most Americans."

"Come on, Gibbs," she responded. "You left your father on good terms. You seemed interested in repairing your relationship with him. Why not start with a simple phone call at Christmas?"

"Did you call your father for Hanukah?"

"No."

"Then I don't think you have a leg to stand on, my dear." His tone was playful, but her eyes flashed anyway.

"Your father's crime was to bring a date to a funeral. _My_ father is a cold, unfeeling bastard who raised his children to be soldiers." She regarded him with a cold look. "Our situations are _slightly_ different." Gibbs knew he had made a mistake, but before he could backtrack, or even think about apologizing, she continued.

"Which is why I called my father on Rosh Hashanah." She gave him a knowing smirk. "Only the high holy days could bring me to call my father voluntarily."

She grinned at him, letting him know that his blunder was forgiven, but it also told him that she was well aware that she was the bigger man, and it was now his turn to bite the bullet and make the damn phone call.

"I'll think about it, okay?" he conceded finally. But her grin persisted.

"Whatever you say, my dear," she mimicked. "Just remember that it is _your _traditions that tell us that Kris Kringle is always watching. Sees all, knows all, yes?"

"Something like that," he says, bumping her lightly.

"Jackson does love you, Gibbs. Even a blind man could see it, and I know you love him. Why let pride come between you? You have both made mistakes, but you are all you have left."

"No," he said bluntly, his voice bordering on gruff. She looked at him in surprise, which was only compounded when he placed a kiss on her forehead. "He's not _all_ I have left. I have you."

Her eyes lit up delightedly, but quickly shifted into a look of false disinterest. "You _think_ you have me," she taunted lightly. "But there was a certain security guard yesterday who dashingly admired my investigative skills, yes?"

The jealousy that Gibbs had felt yesterday returned to burn in his gut, but he saw through her ploy immediately. "He was admiring something." he admitted with a grumble. "And yeah, you were really into him, what with your eyes shooting daggers and all when he offered his services as a pack mule. He is one impressive catch, I have to admit."

"Daggers did cross my mind," she admitted amiably, "but certainly not through my eyes. That would hurt me before it would hurt him, yes? And it would render me sightless, which is never advantageous in close-quarters combat."

"It's a figure of speech, Ziver."

She rolled her eyes. "I should have guessed. Americans try to disguise the fact that they say stupid things by passing them off as 'figures of speech' and what not." She regarded him with a cool stare. "You do not usually indulge in such idiocy."

"Call it a result of my unsightly penchant for intense jealousy when a guy stares at you for too long."

"I do not know what a penchant is, but _you_ can call it whatever you want," she allowed. "That is what Americans do best, yes?" She peered at him curiously. "And if you are always so jealous, then how do you manage to not kill McGee and Tony every single day? They certainly look at me more than an average person would over the course of a case."

"McGee finds you too intimidating to actually consider making a move, and while I know Tony pants after you like a bitch in heat, you'd sooner put a gun to his chest than accept any advances from him."

"Hm, you are probably right. But I will rest assured knowing that if I am too lazy to do it myself, you will have no problem doing it for me." She rose up onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "You are cute when you are jealous."

"Cute?" he scoffed. "I don't do cute."

"But you are doing me, no?"

It was a moment before the retort registered, and when it did, Gibbs could not help letting out a bark of laughter. It did not help that the dangerous Mossad assassin he fell in love with was making perfectly rendered puppy-eyes at him. He enveloped her in a hug, which she returned whole-heartedly.

"You're the exception," he reassured her. "The _only_ exception."

"I better be," she returned. "Because I can extremely dangerous when it comes cheating men."

"Oh, good," he teased. "Another reason to not be worried about you running off with Dinozzo." He paused. "Here we are," he said with little fanfare.

Before them stood a black granite wall, shiny and clean even in the dirty slush of the day-old snow. Only about 10 feet of it was visible from where they stood, but Gibbs knew that it would extend for roughly 75 meters until it met an identical wall that would continue on to the east. Despite the dwindling daylight, there was still a considerable number of visitors paying their respects to the soldiers and Marines who died in Vietnam.

Gibbs had been there more times than he could count, and the inverted V of the pathway was familiar to him as he began to guide Ziva towards the memorial. The place was quiet, the silence broken only by the dull murmur of visitors offering prayers to their loved ones, or to the lost souls they had never even met. Even the few children at the memorial with their families were calm and noiseless, as if sensing the somber tone of their surroundings.

Ziva said nothing about the fact that they had been there only a few days before, while searching for their suspect. She said nothing of the fact that the names on the wall meant little to her, as she was not an American, nor a soldier or Marine… Her dark eyes scanned over the names, and even moved closer to read some more carefully. Gibbs could see her take in the legend of the crosses and diamonds, as if deciphering their meaning. It was several long moments before either of them spoke.

"It reminds me of the Kotel," she said softly, walking beside Gibbs as she continued to gaze at their black reflections. When he looked at her in confusion, she continued. "The Western Wall, in Jerusalem. Jews from all over the world travel to pray at the Wall. It is the only remnant of the Temple that remains, and it is said that it is still holy." She paused, as if gathering her thoughts.

"In a way, it too is a memorial in honor of warriors who gave their lives, though many do not consider it in that way. They are mostly concerned that it is rumored that it was close to the Holy of Holies—the most sacred room of the temple. It is said that Yahweh can hear your prayers more clearly there, because of it. But I think most forget that the Temple was destroyed in the course of a revolt against the Roman Empire. Even more people have died since then in order to maintain possession of the Wall." She paused, looking up and down the length of the wall. "I prayed for _them _when I first went to the wall, when I was twelve. The atmosphere is the same here too. There is respect, a pain that is felt by all, even if some never lost family in the war. America itself suffered during the conflict, yes? As a people, you all feel the loss."

"Yes," Gibbs replied, his voice equally low. "We all do, just as we all did on 9/11. The only difference here is that we have no one to blame but ourselves. These men weren't the victim of some sudden, brutal attack. These men voluntarily died for their country, for a war their families and friends publicly denounced back at home. And the final kick to the gut: we didn't even win the damn war."

"I think I can understand something about tha—" Ziva's voice trailed off abruptly, coming to short stop in the middle of the path. Gibbs paused as well, suddenly on edge. Even here, at a place that Ziva was not too far off in describing it as a place of worship, it was possible that she had seen or sensed something threatening. The idea that someone would attack a place like this would later turn Gibbs stomach, but at the moment he was too preoccupied with scanning the shrinking crowd.

"What is it?" he asked softly, his lips barely moving in an attempt to keep up pretenses as run-of-the-mill tourists. But instead of answering, Ziva moved away from him, towards the wall. Her eyes squinted in an attempt to read the tiny etchings, and Gibbs heaved a sigh of relief when he realized that a name had simply caught her attention. He let her move closer, and was surprised when a sad smile crossed her lips.

"I know this name," she said, reaching up to touch one of the engravings. Gibbs stepped closer and read the name. _Andrew Strybel, Jr._ His brow furrowed.

"How do you know him?" he asked after a moment, when she offered no immediate explanation on her own. Her expression was wistful, out o place on her usually guarded countenance.

"I do not know _him_," she clarified. "I know his family. Or rather, _of_ his family."

"I still don't understand," he said. A long moment passed, and Gibbs could see the wheels turning in her. She was debating whether or not to tell him anything else. Which meant that the story was private. Gibbs was curious as to how Ziva, an Israeli to the core, would know an American family who lost someone in the Vietnam War, but he was not going to press any more than he already had.

To his surprise, she sighed, and turned to him. "The David family was not always the Davids. We changed our name when we came to Israel, to return to our Hebrew roots. Before Israel existed as a nation, back when it was nothing more than an abstract ideal the Diaspora clung to, my family lived in Poland.

"The Germans made Poland their main concern when they began their assault on Europe in World War II. The Jewish population in Poland was devastated, but through the aid of some Polish families, a few managed to escape the Holocaust. They were smuggled out of Poland, or hidden in Polish homes, even though the punishment for being caught helping or hiding a Jew was punishable by death. The Strybels took my great-grandfather, his wife, and his ten children into their home, and hid them for months until they were able to flee the city."

"Your family survived the Holocaust?" At this, her expression darkened, and Gibbs immediately knew the answer.

"No," she said, her voice hard. "They were discovered before they reached the border. Strybel's son kept contact with my family; one of the last letters sent described a young grandson named Andrew after the man who had taken my family in, his grandfather, had joined the Marines to fight in Vietnam." Her eyes returned to the name once more. "This is him, I know it. I feel it here." Her hand pressed against her stomach, and Gibbs immediately understood.

Gibbs nodded mutely. Regardless of his own reliance on his gut, he had learned over the years that Ziva's instincts were usually dead on. She had begun to adopt a 'wait-until-the-evidence-is-in' mindset since her assignment to NCIS, mostly as a buffer against her deadly kneejerk tendencies, but that only reinforced the moments she _did_ rely on raw instinct.

He watched as her head bowed respectfully, her eyes closed. The fingers of the hand not resting on the wall drifted to the star around her neck, and her lips began to move rapidly in the form of a ghostly prayer. Gibbs stepped away, giving her time to pay her respects to the man she had never met. As he stood back, he could not help but notice how she looked like everyone else mourning at the memorial. If one simply glanced at wall, she blended in with the Americans who silently lauded the sacrifice of the men and women who had fallen for their country. No one but him knew that she was thanking a stranger for the sacrifice his family had made, in another country— another world. A sacrifice Andrew Strybel Jr. may not have even been aware of when he shipped off to the jungle.

Suddenly, he bit back a grin that threatened to overcome his features as he imagined the spirit of battle-hardened Marine looking down from wherever Marines went when they died and wondering why the hell a beautiful stranger was standing at the closest thing he had to a grave and offering her gratitude. _Crazy dame,_ echoed a voice in his ears. _She's gotta be off her head to come round to my place..._

But he pushed the thoughts away, eclipsed by the curiosity of what it was that she was actually saying. When she finally pulled away from the wall, and joined him on the path, he did not ask the questions lingering in his mind. Her features were carefully schooled, and he quickly realized that she was disconcerted by the discovery of Andrew Strybel Jr.'s name and the subsequent revelation of her family's history.

As they walked silently back to the car they had left in one of the nearby lots, Gibbs considered the pain she must be feeling. To America, the Holocaust was something taught in the classroom, and while the children were shocked by how many people were persecuted and executed, they always failed to grasp the gravity of the whole concept. And when they were finally old enough to comprehend it, they were too wrapped up in their own lives to do anything more than sigh in sympathy when the subject was mentioned.

But to so many, the Holocaust was still fresh, still painful. And to the Israeli's, whose very nation was born out of a global need to make up for the travesties the Jews suffered, it was all the more heart-rending. From what Ziva had told him, Gibbs figured that many preferred to focus on the present as there was enough to worry about without dwelling on past transgressions of the Germans. But it was still an open wound to many of them, and it now seemed that Ziva was no exception.

The ride back to Gibbs' house was silent. They opted for takeout rather than a home-cooked meal. But they ate in the kitchen, not the basement. Ziva said little throughout the meal, and accepted Gibbs' offer to clear up once they had finished. She disappeared to the basement, clearly eager for a few moments to herself. As soon as the trash and plates were cleared away, Gibbs followed her, and was greeted by the sight of her sanding the long slats of the boat's hull.

As he descended the stairs, Gibbs thought he caught a glimpse of a tear in the dim light, but she turned away before he could be certain. He moved to stand behind her, trailing a calloused hand down her arm. The warmth of her skin seeped into his fingertips, and her hands stilled under his touch.

"What did you say to Andrew's name?" he asked. The inquiry was blunt and would have confused anyone else, but he knew that she knew exactly what he was asking.

"I recited a Kiddish," she said. She pulled away from him, tossing the sanding block onto the workbench. "A Hebrew funeral prayer. It was the least I could do, after what his family did for mine."

Gibbs said nothing, sensing the turmoil within her. She had distanced herself from him physically by turning to flick idly through the tools strewn across the worktable, but he knew from past experiences that it did not mean she was shutting him out. His patience was rewarded when she began to speak softly, her eyes focusing on the tools.

"They were sent to Treblinka." Her voice was small, cautious, but still unnervingly dark. Her tone was flat, as if any inflection threatened her resolve. "My family. They were discovered in transit, fifty miles from the border. Because they were found as fugitives, they were sent to Treblinka—a death camp disguised as a railway station. Of the ten children, only my grandfather survived; as the oldest son, he was the strongest, and was selected to help… maintain the facilities. His father was executed immediately upon being discovered, when he tried to fight the Gestapo. The others were murdered when they arrived at the camp." Anger and bitterness tinged her tone, and Gibbs saw her fist clench tightly as it rested on the wooden surface of the table.

"But your grandfather escaped," Gibbs prompted, eager to keep her rage tempered.

"Yes," she said, straightening as she squared her shoulders. "There was an uprising among the inmates, and he fled. As he did, he saved the life a young Romani woman, another prisoner of the camp who had been chosen to be a permanent worker." A small smile crossed her features. "One of the few memories I have of my grandfather is him telling us of how beautiful she was, despite having seen such horrors. He always said that it was the reminder he had that the world was not as evil as he had come to believe at Treblinka. _A world could not be truly evil if it had created a woman as beautiful as your grandmother_, he told us. Bubbe told me that I looked like her, though I never believed him once he showed me pictures of her." The Yiddish word for grandfather surprised Gibbs; she was slipping deeper into her memories, he realized. It made sense that she would have used the Yiddish—her grandfather was European, where Yiddish was predominantly used in the mid-20th Century. Gibbs observed Ziva carefully as she continued, seeing the growing tension in her limbs.

"After the war ended, he went back to Poland to try and find the Strybels, to thank them. He remembered their kindness, even though he had still lost his entire family. It was then that he found out that Andrew Strybel, the proud patriarch that had taken him in, had been turned in by one of his neighbors, only days after our family had left for the border. He was executed for his generosity, but his family had managed to flee to America.

"Bubbe tracked them down, and began exchanging letters with one of Andrew's children— a boy he had befriended while in hiding. They kept in touch for years, apparently bonded by the similar losses they shared. After the letter about Andrew Jr., the letters stopped coming. I suppose now that the other man had passed on, but my grandfather continued to send letters to America, right up until the week he died.

"He never forgot the Strybels' sacrifice, even though he himself still lost so much. He always was the optimist, though. Bubbe loved life. He was always haunted by the memories of Treblinka, of the horrors he saw and the part he played in them, but he never hated, was never bitter. He didn't tell us war stories—they were love stories. The love of a stranger's family who rescued us from the ghetto and lost their father for their charity. And the love he found while fleeing the camp, the wife whom he loved even long after her death."

Her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the basement, and her brow furrowed as she heard her voice thicken with unbidden emotion. But she continued on, as if unable to stop now that she had started.

"I never met my grandmother. She died before I was born, when Ari was still a baby. She died because she had worked for months and months at Treblinka. The same gas that killed my family during the war killed her too, years after she had thought she had escaped. Bubbe waited for the same fate, and, I think, may have even wished for it once she was gone and it was becoming more and more obvious that Israel was not the haven he had hoped it would be. He died when I was five, and even then I could see how unhappy he was, despite his outward good spirits. I think he was disheartened by the fact that we were still fighting for our home, to keep our people safe."

She paused, her fingers playing with the handle of an awl. "I am glad that he is no longer with us," she admitted softly. "I am glad that he did not live long enough to see what I have become."

"From what I can see," Gibbs interrupted, speaking up for the first time, "you two aren't that dissimilar."

"You mean the fact that I have seen more than any one person should have to? That I will be forever haunted by my sins? Or do you mean in the way that I have found love while trying to escape a nightmare?" Her voice was dripping with caustic cynicism, taking Gibbs by surprise. "Yes, I have already thought about all that," she informed him. "And there is one difference that sets us apart."

"And what is that?"

"My sins were committed voluntarily."

Gibbs was rendered speechless, unable to respond to the defeated tone of her words. All of the fire that he had thought a permanent resident in her bearing was suddenly gone, vanished without a trace only to be replaced by muted acceptance. But in the next moment, the fire was back, and her eyes gleamed in the dim light as she turned to face him.

"But do you understand now? Do you understand why we do what we do? Why we continue to fight, no matter what it might cost to us individually?" Her voice was now strong and forceful, but there was an undercurrent of heavy emotion that made her seem as if she were barely able to hold back her tears. "We will continue to fight because it is the only way we can honor those who died in the camps. Just as you go to the Vietnam memorial to honor the fallen, we fight to honor those who lay naked and broken in the mass graves in Poland and Germany, so that their sacrifices do not go forgotten. It is the only way we can ensure that what few who survived will not have to face what they had to. That their children will have asylum from the rape they suffered, the rape of their religion, their culture, and their very identities."

Finally, the tears escaped her eyes, and began to race down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them from her cheeks, but where she wiped one away, another was there to take its place. She was not sobbing, and her breathing wasn't ragged—these tears were not the result of some long-repressed emotional distress. These were the tears of a woman who felt the suffering of her people, unable to forget the tragedies of a not-so-distant war. The Holocaust had been in her backyard, the impetus of the creation of her beloved homeland, and the singular tragedy that had shaped her grandfather's life, a scar that was passed on to his granddaughter.

Without a word, Gibbs gathered her in his arms, offering what little comfort he could. For a moment, she was stiff and unresponsive, and he thought she might push him away, but then she seemed to melt into him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head buried itself in his chest. But even then, she still tried to explain.

"We can never rest," she said, her voice muffled. "_I_ can never rest, because I know that it could happen again. And even though I may not observe as diligently as others, even though I wear this necklace for Tali, and not my religion… it would still happen. I would still be a Jew, and I would suffer the same as my family. I could not lie about being a Jew, even if it meant being spared. I could not. It is part of who I am."

Gibbs sighed silently. "You don't ever have to explain that to me, Ziver," he said softly. His hand came up and began to stroke her hair soothingly. "I understand devotion, and the value of history." And he did. He could still recite the birthplace and date of the Marine Corps, and the important battles the Corps had been part of since then, even the ones not taught in high school, like Tripoli and Chapultepec. He knew Marine heroes who saw themselves as just Marines, and seen the daunting battles the Marines somehow emerged victorious from. They were not events that shook the globe, like the Holocaust had been, but he understood.

"Thank you for taking me to the wall," Ziva murmured into his chest. He smiled wanly, and placed a kiss on the top of her head.

"Anytime."

* * *

A/N: There you go. Not too painful I hope. Here is the information I promised.

The Wailing Wall: I have not been to the Western Wall. I did my research, and discovered it was part of the great Temple that once stood in Jerusalem, and that it was destroyed by the Roman Empire. For the record, I do not particularly enjoy the Roman Empire. In fact, you could say I downright disapprove of them. But I deliberately tried to stay away from that. I do not know if people think about the Jewish revolt that resulted in the destruction of the Temple, or if they simply focus on the Temple itself, or the exile that followed its destruction.

What I do know is that it is a place for prayer. People of both Jewish and Muslim faiths are expected to be respectful while visiting. Prayers are written on paper and stuffed into the cracks of the wall. I do not know if one can prayer about whatever they want, or if there is a common prayer specific to the Wall (for example, does one say "People go to the Western wall to pray for guidance/patience/wealth/etc"? I do not know). For the purposes of this story, I went with the former option.

Treblinka: Treblinka is one of four death camps implemented in Operation Reinhard. It was specifically an extermination camp, established for the sole purpose of executing Jews and other Third Reich undesirables, including around 2,000 Romanis. It was indeed designed to look like a train station, so as not to alarm the Jews who were unsuspectingly sent there. Only a small fraction of Jews were retained as a labor force; the rest were executed. There was indeed an uprising among the prisoners, though many died before they could escape. It is said that the 60 who did manage to escape that night were the only ones to survive the camp at all.

Polish Resistance: 10% of Poland's population were Jews when Germany invaded during World War II. They were forced into ghettos, were living conditions were atrocious, and those who were not sent to the ghettos were sent either to concentration or extermination camps. Poland was notorious for having many citizens giving aid to the Jewish people, despite the heavy costs. An underground network of an estimated 3 million Polish Gentiles sought to both smuggle and hide Jewish families. Children especially were smuggled out of the ghettos. Poland was the only country in which a death penalty was imposed for helping Jews, and those people who were hiding Jews (and not simply transporting them), had to buy food for them on the black market because the fugitives did not have ration vouchers.

The Israeli government had awarded 6,135 Righteous Among the Nations medals to Polish citizens for their help during the Holocaust-- more than any other nation.

I used this chapter to help give more background to Ziva, beyond the general Mossad operative/trained assassin themes. I tried to address the unity the Israelis might feel because of the tragedy of the Holocaust. I think sometimes, as Americans, we don't really comprehend the Holocaust, but the Holocaust was the main reason Israel was finally created-- because the world felt guilty for what had happened to the Jews. I know a lot of other factors played into the process, but the Holocaust was a driving factor.

I left Ziva's family name (pre-David) vague. I did not divulge what their family name _used_ to be. I did this out of respect for the people who did survive Treblinka, and as thematic tool to emphasize that Ziva is proud of her status as an Israeli. I did not want to belittle the courage of the Treblinka survivors by accidentally using their name, or presuming that just anyone was strong enough to do the same. A little convoluted, but respect is the underlying theme in all of my reservations about this chapter.

Obviously, I am not Israeli, and I am not even Jewish. So obviously, I have no idea if Jews truly feel this deeply about the devastating loss sustained in the Holocaust, even after all these years, or if Israelis still identify with their European roots. I tried to use what I know of Ziva's character and how I think _I _would feel about it if in her particular situation. I took creative licenses, and I hope I did not offend anyone in the process.

Please, if offense has been taken, let me know. I will gladly take this down without question, and will stay away from the topic in the future.


	6. A Man Walks into a Bar Pt 1

_A/N: Yay! I'm posting! I know, you'd rather read Apocalypse, and I swear to all the gods that I haven't abandoned it. I've written the next chapter about five times now and nothing seems to quite work. But while I'm still slowly working through that, here's a little creative thought that I just couldn't keep to myself. There's another on the way, so keep an eye out! **Spoiler alert for the 2/8 episode "A Man Walks into a Bar". **_

_I'll probably insert this into the second part of the Something More series that's slated to occur soon, but until it gets started, I'm storing it here in Extra._

_As always, enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

Gibbs almost laughed as he heard the doctor's swift counter to Ziva's proud declaration of professionalism.

The shock, and subsequent urge to backpedal, was so clear in her expression that it was almost comical. Clearly, the ever stoic Ziva David hadn't expected to be singled out so readily. Maybe she thought her recent psych eval to facilitate her special agent status would exempt her from this round—sadly, she would receive no such special treatment.

And then the shock turned into a mask of exasperation, as Gibbs watched her deliver an obvious eye roll. But lurking beneath the calm façade he could detect a glimmer of doubt; she was nervous, and not yet feeling secure in her place among NCIS' permanent personnel. She would never say as much, but Gibbs could see it, even hear it sometimes when someone mentioned her history with Mossad.

As though she felt one small slip of the tongue would send her packing back to Israel.

She smiled when he gave her a nod of silent support, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. When she disappeared to one of the conference rooms, psychologist on her tail, Gibbs watched her go before turning back to the rest of his team, whose gazes were similarly occupied, their eyes dark with concern.

"You think she'll be okay, boss?" DiNozzo asks quietly, so no one else in the squad room could possibly overhear—no one else would have any reason to doubt Agent David's capabilities.

"She'll be fine, DiNozzo," Gibbs returns with a knowing smile. "She's tough. And she has absolutely nothing to worry about."

And she didn't. She was still seeing her own psychologist on a regular basis, and though Doctor Ramirez? didn't have any influence on Ziva's job, Gibbs knew her perceptions of shrinks in general had improved a great deal.

Gibbs' smile turned into a smirk, and pegged his senior field agent with a sharp eye. "You, on the other hand…"

"Say no more, boss," DiNozzo flippantly replied. He smacked himself across the back of the head. "Rule number one effectively remediated: Never doubt your partner."

"I thought rule one was never screw over your partner," McGee spoke up, his brow furrowed.

Gibbs eyed him, as did DiNozzo.

"Same thing, McGee," the younger man voiced solemnly. Comprehension dawned, and McGee nodded.

"Right."

Gibbs took a swig of coffee, determined to not let his agents see his satisfaction. "Gear up," he delivered calmly. "We're going to the harbor."

* * *

They returned to the squad room just in time to see Ziva emerging from the back hallway, apparently having just finished her interview.

Gibbs knew something was wrong the minute he saw her flushed cheeks and damp eyes, but she brushed past him without a word—her hand merely lifted, signaling her need for space. He let her have it, refraining from following her into the stairwell. His eyes found the shrink, whose big brown eyes were calm and collected, as if she hadn't noticed her interviewee's distress.

He let his features harden into an impenetrable mask, all goodwill he'd been willing to show the woman flying right out the window. There was something about the woman that had made him want to trust her, to give her that elusive benefit of the doubt, but in the face of Ziva's reaction, none of it mattered. That little spark of familiarity instantly transformed into a threat, and he wasn't going to let it get through his defenses.

He issued a few barking orders that would keep his remaining agents busy for the time being, and though he didn't say a word to the doctor, she must have read his pointed look as the instruction that it was, for she didn't move to follow as he abandoned the squad room in search of his missing agent.

He found her in a secluded hallway in the basement, the same hallway Abby had once eavesdropped on them one turbulent Sunday morning. But where he'd then found her perched on a windowsill, this time she was situated on the floor, her back against the tiled wall and her knees flush to her chest. She looked up briefly at his arrival, and belatedly swiped at her cheeks, angrily dashing the tears away.

He stood over her for a moment, not saying a word, before he finally settled down next to her, brushing his shoulder against hers.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice gentle. She didn't look at him. "Interview didn't go well, I take it." This time, his response was a husky scoff. She didn't offer details, and he weighed his options carefully before continuing. "Did she ask about Somalia?"

She shouldn't have. That had already been taken care of by the department shrinks when her application for special agent status was first being considered. But these interviews had been long in coming, and he wouldn't put it past someone to try and test the waters, just to see how volatile the MCRT actually was.

But to his relief, she shook her head.

"No," she said, her voice thick. "It did not come up."

She didn't offer anything else for a long moment, and Gibbs simply let the quiet hang over them, knowing she would continue when and if she was ready. Sure enough, it was Ziva who finally broke the silence.

"She wanted to see what I was made of. Why I thought myself worthy of my spot on the team. She—she wanted to know what I wanted from being here."

"And?"

"You already know what I want, Jethro," she said softly. "You've already given it."

"Then what is it? If you've already got it, then why did it get to you?"

"Because I know the truth! I know that the only reason I have had the chance to live my life in peace is because my brother stole the life of Caitlin Todd. If she had not been murdered, I would never have found a home, or a family. What this woman really wanted to know was what made me good enough to have earned such privilege—what made me worthy of taking Agent Todd's place."

Gibbs's brow furrowed. "Ziva," he started carefully, not sure how to proceed, "Kate was… is… special. You know that. But, you are too—"

"This is not a petty ploy for sympathy, Gibbs," she interrupted harshly. Her eyes flashed angrily as she finally met his gaze, but a moment later, they softened, and the fight left her shoulders as she relaxed ever so slightly. "You do not recognize her, do you?"

"Should I?" Gibbs blinked at the sudden change in her demeanor. "Do you?"

She nodded solemnly.

"How?"

She hesitated. Not long, but long enough for Gibbs to feel his gut tighten with anticipation. There were a lot of places Ziva could recognize someone from, and in her line of work, that could mean trouble. But when she finally answered, it wasn't what he expected to hear.

"When Ari first infiltrated NCIS, I compiled thorough dossiers on anyone he might come into contact with—foremost among which were the members of the Major Case Response Team."

"I know that." It was how she'd known about his wife and daughter, and about DiNozzo's history. It was an effective way to get under one's skin, and the younger man was no exception.

"Jethro... Did—Did Kate ever tell you about her family?"

"Catholic, Midwestern, and a handful of older brothers she picked up a few bad habits from."

She nodded, then took a shaky breath. "Her interest in abnormal psychology began when she was fifteen… when her sister decided to become a psychologist."

And just like that, everything clicked.

"No…"

But Ziva nodded, banishing his disbelief like it was nothing but so much smoke.

"Doctor Rachel Cranston is Kate's older sister."


	7. A Man Walks into a Bar Pt 2

A few nights later, Gibbs was leaning against the day to the kitchen, watching Ziva cook.

He knew something was on her mind, because the room was silent except for the bubbling of a simmering pot and the scrape of a spoon in the pan. Normally she would hum, even sing wordlessly to herself as she worked.

"Anything wrong?" he asked carefully.

Brown eyes lifted to meet his as she shrugged.

"Not really," she responded honestly. Except, he knows that she'd been bothered by her interview with Dr. Rachel Cranston. He still didn't know exactly what had been said, but it had shaken her, almost as much as he himself had been when she'd revealed to him the significance of the psychologist's presence.

Gibbs looked at her for a long moment, until she rolled her eyes.

"Jethro, I'm fine," she reassured him. She turned back to the stove to sprinkle a pinch of herbs into the sauce. "I was just… thinking."

"That's dangerous."

His jibe went unnoticed, her features introspective. "Exactly how much did you tell Dr. Cranston? About what happened with Ari?"

"I took her to the basement," he answered. There was no reason to hide the truth, and he'd already informed her of his intentions to put the woman at ease. "Told her you killed her sister's killer."

Her movements are now stiff, and her lips are pressed into a thin line. But he knows that she isn't angry with him. It hurts, even so many years later, to think about that night. Finally, she nods.

"I ran into the doctor in the elevator on her way out of the building."

He waited patiently for her to continue, curious as to how Cranston's opinion of his newest agent might have changed, after learning the truth.

"She apologized."

Gibbs' brow arched. "Really? That it?"

"We traded words," she clarified vaguely. "She eventually informed me that she did not blame me for Kate's death."

It was a statement of fact, but the slightly bitter undercurrent in her voice worries him.

"You think she lied to you?"

"No. I believe she was sincere. And I think she felt better for it."

"What do you mean?"

Ziva turned and leaned against the counter, facing him directly. "Some people need to hate someone to find peace. Others need to find forgiveness. Apparently, the good doctor is one of the latter."

Gibbs waited a moment, regarding her until something clicked. "You think she's wrong."

"Not wrong," she countered. "Just… misguided."

"For accepting that Kate's death wasn't your fault? Ziva, that's…" Absurd. Ridiculous. But apparently, a true concern. He could see it in her eyes. "It wasn't your fault."

"Come on, Jethro. You know better than that."

"Ziva…"

"I was his _control officer_, Jethro. I should have seen it. I was the one who gave him all the ammunition he needed to get under your skin, and I should have known the two of you would have…"

Would have what? Driven each other to hell and back? Become each other's personal vendetta? She never finished her thought, so Gibbs could only wonder where she would've gone with it.

"I was the only one who could have prevented Kate's death. But I did not see how Ari had changed. I did not want to. So Kate dies, and then what? I take her spot on the team, I use her desk, and I try to convince myself that it was the best for everyone. Even you, because you needed another person on your team, and Jenny told me you could use my skills."

But it hadn't exactly been that way, had it? She'd been there on her father's orders.

"I know that my father wanted me there," she continued, as though sensing his thoughts. "But I told you the truth that day—I needed to be away from Mossad for a while. And now I look back, and I think that maybe things would have been better if I had been less naïve. If I had seen Ari's betrayal before he killed Kate."

It wasn't a concept he'd considered in a long time. But, in those rough few weeks after Kate's death, his what-ifs had been focused on himself—what if he'd been quicker, what if he'd killed Ari in the morgue when he'd had the chance, what if he'd forbidden Kate from going to that goddamned rooftop…

But he'd banished those thoughts long ago.

He thought she had as well.

"Ziva…" She didn't meet his gaze. She didn't want to hear him. Maybe she wasn't ready to forgive herself yet, but Gibbs didn't care.

He closed the difference between them and pulled her into his arms. He felt her resist for the slightest of moments, but then she relaxed, her arms wrapping around his waist, her cheek pressing lightly against his chest.

"I know what you're going to say, Jethro," she said softly, her breath warm against his shoulder. "But I don't understand what I've done to deserve all of this. This happiness… it should have been hers. Sometimes I feel that I've stolen it, that it's wrong to be content after everything that has happened."

"You can't think like that, Ziva. You can't. It'll swallow you up. You deserve happiness. I don't know why some people get it, and others just don't. It's not fair, but if we went by fair, no one in the world would be happy."

"But—"

"I had the same doubts, Ziver. After Shannon, I was afraid I'd be betraying her by being with someone else. But it doesn't work like that. We can only remember the past, honor it—we can't live in it. We take what we get, and we make the best of it. That's all we can do. For them. For us. It's all we can do."

She didn't say anything. She didn't move. He wasn't even sure she was breathing.

But then a moment later, he heard a soft sniffle, and her arms tightened around him.

"I miss him," came the whispered confession.

She didn't have to say who.

"It's okay," he whispered back. "It's all right to miss him."

His shirt was growing damp, but he didn't care. He held her until she pulled away, swiping the tears from her cheeks with almost a sort of reverence. She turned back to the stove, giving everything a brisk stir. The meal wasn't one he recognized, at least at this stage, but it smelled spicy and fragrant.

"There is a reason Rachel Cranston insisted on doing the interviews now," she delivered bluntly over her shoulder.

He nodded. "Kate died six years ago Tuesday."

She hummed in affirmation. "I think you should take Abby, Tony, and McGee out."

"And do what?" He'd never really joined in on team outings. He knew they went out to bars on a semi-regular basis for team nights. But he rarely joined them. Usually, the team came to him if they needed something.

Ziva's head remains bowed over the stove, but her answer was clearly audible.

"Remember."

He was silent for a long moment, then nodded. It felt right.

"You don't want to come?" Even as he posed the question he knew the answer. This was something she didn't feel she should be a part of. She hadn't known Kate, except through the dossier she'd complied, she was right—it was something that should be among the ones who had worked with Kate, known her as something more than a list of facts in a file.

She took a breath. "I've been thinking of taking some time off," she said.

"Really?" His surprise is audible, and when she responds, he could hear her smile.

"Yes," she returns. "My father would appreciate a visit, I think… and I have my own mourning to do." For a long moment, the only sound is the simmering of dinner. "I want to visit my family."

Her father wasn't the only one she wanted to see. All things considered, she was probably more ambivalent about Eli than anything else. She meant Ari. She meant Tali. Probably her mother, too. Gibbs had never heard Ziva reveal anything about her mother, not even enough to know if she were alive or dead.

But, he supposed, that alone was a clue in and of itself.

"Do you want me to go with you?"

He'd go with her in a heartbeat, and not just because he had no small amount of misgivings about her going there alone. She's gone to visit Shannon's and Kelly's graves with him. He would return the gesture if she let him.

But she shook her head no.

"This is something I need to do alone."

She doesn't mention her father, or that Gibbs being there would be ten times more dangerous than her going on her own.

But he nodded anyway, and slouched against the counter, his arms crossed casually in front of him. Ziva shot him a shy smile when she noticed his lingering gaze, which quickly shifted into a smirk.

"So, what's for dinner?"


	8. Kill Screen

_A/N: So, this was my original "reveal", so to speak, of the Something More Zibbs relationship. The finale kind of changed how things worked out, but this was just sitting here on my hard drive... So I'm posting it. Here yah go!_

_So, as always, enjoy. :D_

* * *

The doors slid shut with a muted clang, pitching them into a darkness broken by the erratic pulsing of the lights.

Ziva slammed her hand against the metal door, muttering a curse under breath. Her hand was followed by a foot, and then an elbow—until she was unleashing her frustration and growing panic at the sudden confinement.

Suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, stilling her limbs with a gentle firmness.

"Hey," Tony said softly, the feel of his breath on her ear bringing her back to reality. For a split second she nearly turned on him, but she took a deep breath, centering herself to keep her wits.

She forced herself to relax.

"We're trapped," she said bluntly.

He nodded against her shoulder. "I know," he returned. "You okay?"

She nodded mutely, and he released her slowly, allowing her to regain her footing before removing his arms entirely. He watched as she ran a hand over her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath.

"We need to get out of here," she declared firmly. She was already peering at the edges of the door, searching for a weakness.

"You know, it's a good idea, really… But I don't think that's gonna be happening any time soon."

His slightly joking but no less true statement was met with a stony glare. "Well, I do not give up so easy."

He shrugged. "I'm just saying, this guy has been five steps ahead of us all along, so I really doubt he'd make a trap that didn't actually work. You read me?"

Brown eyes glared at him in the shadows. "Oh yes, Tony, I read you, loud and clear. You would rather sit here useless while Gibbs tries to beat a _computer game_ on his own."

"Ah…" Tony grimaced. "Yeah, when you say it like that—"

His words of surrender cut off abruptly when the ground beneath their feet suddenly vibrated, and the unmistakeable sound of an explosion came echoing to them from deeper within the facility.

He shot a look towards his partner just in time to see the color drain from her face as she rocketed to the door that trapped them.

"GIBBS!" Her call was nearly deafening as it reverberated in the confined space. Her hand beat against the metal bulkhead. "Gibbs!"

Her fingers searched the riveted seams, questing for any hidden weakness. Tony watched as his own panic faded, his piqued interest overriding the brief fear the explosion sparked in him. It wasn't much of an explosion really—the muffled thump sounded more like a flash-bang than anything else. But the way Ziva was reacting, anyone might've thought an IED had gone off outside the door.

"No, no, nonono," she muttered frantically. "Gibbs!" She slowly descended into a flood of Hebrew, and her eyes glinted in the dancing beams of the flashlight.

Tony listened for a moment, before he put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, Ziver—"

"_Lo_!" She knocked his hand away with a vicious swipe of her arm. A torrent of indecipherable words followed, and though Tony didn't know Hebrew, her tone read loud and clear. _Don't touch me_.

He stepped back, lifting his hands. "Okay, okay…"

But then the gunshots came. Tony heard a full clip get fired off, and Ziva's frenzied motions fell to a dead halt. She fell still, her eyes wide and horrified. Then, slowly, her lids closed, and he knew she was trying to calm herself.

He could almost see the thoughts racing through her head, the reassurances to herself that Gibbs was a good agent. That he could take care of himself. That it would take more than a computer game to take him out.

The same thoughts were running through his own head, and apprehension curled in his gut when the deadline for the virus came and went, and still no word came from their boss. In the silence that followed, Ziva's forehead rested heavily on the door, her eyes still shut.

The minutes stretched on, until finally, suddenly, a voice called through the metal bulkhead.

"You two all right in there?"

Ziva's eyes flew open in surprise, but just as quickly they crinkled with relief, her lips curling into a smile. "We're fine," she called back. "You? What happened?"

"Ah," Gibbs groused, "damn flash-bang went off."

Tony spoke up them. "And the virus?"

"Had to shoot the damn thing. Emptied a clip into the computer."

Ziva coughed back a laugh, and Tony chuckled lightly under his breath.

"Recovery teams are on the way," Gibbs continued. "No way for me to get you out without a couple of blowtorches. Can you guys stay put until then?"

Brown eyes rolled derisively. "Do we have a choice?"

The answering smirk was obvious in Gibbs' tone. "Nope."

And that was the end of it. A few words, half of them teasing, and his partner was completely at ease. Worry still lurked in her eyes, but she now sat, leaning against wall as she settled down to wait. Her arms relaxed against her knees, and the tension had bled from her shoulders.

Her features were calm, and Tony peered closely as he sat next to her. One eye peered back, regarding him with an arched brow. He answered her unspoken question as nonchalantly as he could manage.

"So… you and the boss man, huh?"

Some of the tension crept back into her features. He watched her take a breath, hold it, and then turn to face him. "Tony—"

"No, hey, I get it," he cut in quickly. "It makes sense—well, the age thing seems a little skeevy, but hey, love knows no age right?"

"Tony…" This time, her tone leaned towards scolding, and he instantly pulled back.

He listened to the silence surround them, letting this newest revelation roll around in his head. It was a shock—but at the same time, it wasn't. At first blush, Ziva had more in common with Gibbs than she did anyone else in the agency, and he bet they had even more in common deeper under the surface. There was a trust she had in Gibbs that no one else on the team could boast—even he himself.

Himself. He did have a bond with Ziva. He felt it every time she smiled, and every time she traded barbs with him. Maybe—maybe, some days he thought about what could be, if either one of them took the first step towards being something more.

A handful of times he almost had taken that step. But he'd always held back, because he was terrified of losing her as a friend. That something would ruin that something more and they'd be left being absolutely nothing at all. So, maybe he was too late now. She'd found something more with someone else.

He was hurt she hadn't told him before now. That she hadn't trusted him. But he didn't hate her. He couldn't even bring himself to be angry. The broken regulations aside, the fact that Gibbs had so selfishly decided to mess with the team dynamic irked him.

But the little voice that had held him back Ziva all these years spoke up once again. The same voice that urged him to maintain the status quo, that whispered the consequences of his knee-jerk reaction in his ear. Did he really want to lose his friend to the anger he could be feeling?

The answer was no. Plain and simple.

"It's gonna be weird, for a while," he said, his voice calm and clear in the small space. "It'll be awkward, and different, and Vance might have puppies over it…"

"_Tony_—"

"But," he continued undaunted, "you've been through a lot of shit these past few years." He turned to meet her gaze, no hint of joke or quip on his mind. "However weird it might be… It's worth it to see you happy."

She didn't respond for the longest time. So long, he almost forgot about expecting one. He was so deep in thought, the touch of her fingers on the back of his hand made him jump. Her fingers intertwined with his, gripping his hand tightly. When he looked into her eyes, he was surprised to find them brimming with tears.

"Thank you."

Her voice was thick and husky with emotion, and her lips trembled. His heart reached out to her, and he let go of her hand only to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder. He didn't respond beyond that, and together, they sat in the warm silence.

Eventually, Ziva fell asleep against him. To his surprise, she didn't even snore a little bit. She remained quiet, with peace etched into her features so perfectly that Tony couldn't help but grin.

It took a couple hours, but her eyes opened once more when the door was forced open. Metal grinded against metal as it inched upwards, but soon enough, Gibbs' grey head was poking through.

Blue eyes fixed Tony with a hard look when Gibbs saw them sitting together so closely. "Cozy?"

Tony opened his mouth to spout off some excuse about chills and drafty warehouses, but Ziva got to her feet too quickly for him to voice anything.

"Stockholm Syndrome," she asserted adroitly. "I'm getting tired of being the one stuck with sweaty guys in enclosed spaces, Gibbs."

"Stop standing next to them when they get trapped," came the acerbic reply, a chuckle in his voice.

It was business as usual, it seemed.

But Tony couldn't help but notice how Ziva's palm trailed across Gibbs' abdomen as she slid past, the motion so fleeting that no one else could have noticed. But then he saw Gibbs' eyes follow her, expertly looking her up and down for injury. The once-over seemed to assure him, and his gaze turned back to Tony as he came even with him.

Tony paused, drawing to a halt in front of his boss, his mentor. Thoughts raced through his head, and witticisms danced on the edge of his tongue. But in the end, all he could do was hitch up his britches, puff out his chest, and look the man in the eye.

"Hurt her, and I'll kill you," he stated simply, no malice or judgement in his tone.

Then he turned, and walked away.

He didn't even get to see the knowing smirk that would've answered him.


End file.
